


squeezed like an orange to the last

by Cerberusia



Series: to plunge your naked arms into my beautiful eyes [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, M/M, Urine, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In stark contrast to pretty much every other werewolf Stiles knows, Peter actually uses the door. The bell rings, Stiles clatters out of the kitchen to open the door because his dad isn't home yet and BAM, Peter Hale is on his doorstep.</p><p>"Stiles," he says, cordially. "May I come in?"</p><p>"<i>No</i>," says Stiles, but Peter is already pushing past him and now there's an Alpha werewolf in his kitchen casually inspecting the toaster, how the fuck is this his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	squeezed like an orange to the last

In stark contrast to pretty much every other werewolf Stiles knows, Peter actually uses the door. The bell rings, Stiles clatters out of the kitchen to open the door because his dad isn't home yet and BAM, Peter Hale is on his doorstep.

"Stiles," he says, cordially. "May I come in?"

" _No_ ," says Stiles, but Peter is already pushing past him and now there's an Alpha werewolf in his kitchen casually inspecting the toaster, how the fuck is this his life.

"You should be more careful about checking who you're about to open the door to, Stiles," Peter chides him gently. "The hunters know that you're affiliated with the pack, and you can never be too careful."

"What are you doing here?" demands Stiles, stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. This is crazy and invasive and he has no way to get Peter to leave, and he's almost certain that Peter doesn't plan to murder him in a clever and inventive way but there's no way this can end but badly.

"Well, right now, I think I'm washing those dishes in the sink," says Peter, and Stiles just blinks because what the _fuck_ , what the _actual fuck_ is going on here.

Peter just steps over to the sink, rolls up his sleeves - shirt, no coat today, Stiles notices - picks up a plate and a scrubbing brush and does indeed start doing the dishes.

"You wash, I'll dry?" he asks.

Stiles just stares. Peter finishes washing the plate and puts it on the draining board, and starts on a fork. Then a spoon. Then another plate. There's three plates and assorted cutlery piled on the draining board before Stiles snaps and seizes a dishtowel, striding forward to start ferociously drying the crockery.

"We do have a dishwasher, as I'm sure you've noticed," he points out sullenly.

"Mm, but I prefer to do it by hand sometimes and let my mind wander - simple repetitive tasks help me think, and there's only so often I can mow the lawn. And of course these days there's not many clothes to iron." There's a pause then, because Stiles is never sure how close he can tread to the whole dead family thing. Derek never talks about them if he can help it, though Peter brings them up quite casually - but Stiles still can't work out how he's meant to respond to it, so he usually changes the topic as quickly as possible. He gets family (particularly dead family) being a touchy subject, but Peter's response confuses him.

"...You used to be really domestic, didn't you," says Stiles at last. Testing the waters.

"I did indeed. I think I ended up doing most of the housework just because I enjoyed it." Peter finishes the last knife and hands it directly to Stiles, handle-first. "You don't have to be shy about it, you know. Derek may not be able to talk about what he's lost, but I like to remember the good times - even the bad times, because they were important too. My family is gone and you'll never meet them, but I don't see why you shouldn't know about them. They would have liked to have known you." His voice is very gentle. "They'd have been your pack too."

Stiles takes a few seconds to process that, and when he has he still can't say anything because all the responses that spring to mind are either practically begging Peter to rip his throat out or a little too emotional, a little too revealing. He settles for nodding as he puts the final knife away in the drawer.

He turns to Peter to find Peter already watching him. Stiles can't identify the look in his eyes before he turns away to wander into the living room, and Stiles has to hurry after him because he's not leaving him alone in the house, no sir. Peter stops dead only a few steps into the room, and Stiles nearly slams into his back.

"Whoa!" he says, but Peter's turned around and Stiles yelps as he's pinned to the wall by his hips. Peter leans in close to rip out his throat - no, Stiles realises, to smell his neck. He flails a bit, even though he knows it won't do any good, because not even putting up token resistance could be taken the wrong way.

"What the _fuck_ , dude, what the _fuck_ -" he's cut off by Peter's hand, warm and rough against his mouth. He automatically licks it, like he does with Scott, but Peter doesn't flinch. Instead, his other hand goes to unbutton and unzip Stiles' pants. Stiles struggles harder, because this could be going in several directions and all of them are bad. But Peter leans his weight on him, and he has to stop. This close, he realises that he's actually a couple of centimetres taller than Peter, which is _really weird_ considering that Peter manages to loom anyway. But he's got more pressing things to worry about than their relative heights, because Peter is pulling out his dick and this is so, _so_ bad and Stiles has no idea how to make him stop.

"Stay still," says Peter, close to his ear. His breath is warm. Something hot and wet curls briefly around the shell of his ear, and ohshit, that's Peter's _tongue_. Oh, _gross_. Why do all the Hales he's met have to be such creepers? Although to be fair, Derek's never actually gone as far as _licking his ear_. The fuck he's staying still, he thinks - but then Peter gives his cock a warning squeeze, and okay yeah, he can stay still while he figures out what to do.

As soon as Peter takes his hand off his mouth, he's ready to start demanding some kind of explanation or possibly just start shouting about how totally _not okay_ this is - but Peter drops to his knees to press his face into Stiles' crotch and the words die in his throat. Peter drags Stiles' pants down a bit further to get better access, and okay, Stiles is pretty certain that that's about 72% a fear boner (the other 28% being _there's someone touching his dick_ ), but he doesn't want Peter to think that it's his manhandling that's turning Stiles on because it's _not_. He's only half-hard, it's just a reflex, and he might be able to get the words together to tell Peter that if he'd stop rubbing his thumb along his cock and _sniffing him like a dog what the **fuck**_.

After several excruciating moments, Peter sighs and sits back. His gaze is fixed on Stiles' cock in a way which Stiles can only describe as 'considering'.

"Teenagers. Of course. I suppose I'll have to deal with _this_ first." Stiles wants to ask what he _thought_ was going to happen if he grabbed Stiles' cock, but Peter tightens his loose grip around it into a proper fist for emphasis, and he chokes a little instead.

Then Peter dives in to take Stiles' cock into his mouth in one smooth motion, and Stiles sucks in a breath noisily because _this_ is why people get so het up about blowjobs. Oh, _god_. He grabs at the wall, but there's nothing there to hold, so he ends up doubled over clutching Peter's shoulders as his knees buckle. He's not even thinking of pushing him away: he's entirely focussed on the wet heat around his cock as Peter _sucks_ and Stiles makes some kind of high, desperate noise in the back of his throat. His whole body is tingling, sparking with pleasure. Peter takes one hand off Stiles' hip to play with his balls, and Stiles just keeps making these embarrassing noises, moaning like he's in pain or something. His hips keep making these helpless little jerks forward as he tries to thrust into Peter's mouth (even though that's rude and possibly suicidal because he _can't help it_ ), but Peter just keeps him pinned with one hand. It's simultaneously humiliating and hot, like the wet noises Peter keeps making around his cock which are turning him on like _nothing else_.

Orgasm hits him quickly, too quickly, and he'd be embarrassed if he weren't busy gasping and shuddering and coming in Peter's mouth. It feels like being punched, like being electrocuted, so good it's painful.

Peter milks him through it and the aftershocks, and even when Stiles is limp again, he still doesn't let go. It's like he's waiting for something, but Stiles has no idea what. He does, however, kind of need to piss like he always does after coming, which could be awkward -

Oh.

Stiles has been studiously avoiding thinking about that thing in the car a couple of weeks ago, but it's coming together now. This is what Peter was after all along.

"I'm not doing it," he says, still a bit shaky. "You can't make me." Peter looks up and raises an eyebrow at him, the head of Stiles' cock still in his mouth. It's oversensitive, but there's no point telling him that. "I'm not-" He can't get the words out, so he makes a vague gesture. Peter gets what he means: his eyes narrow and he presses one hand gently against Stiles' abdomen. Stiles starts to struggle, but that just makes it worse so he quickly stops. Peter keeps pressing, massaging, and clenching his bladder sphincter so he won't piss is becoming rapidly more uncomfortable. The tip of his cock is still in Peter's mouth, warm and wet, which _really_ isn't helping.

And then Peter's hand moves from his abdomen to his sides to tickle him, and as he doubles over and his muscles contract, he feels a tiny spurt of urine get forced out of his cock, into Peter's mouth.

Peter _moans_. A guttural, desperate, honest-to-god moan that sends vibrations all the way down Stiles' cock. After that, Stiles can't hold it any more: he covers his red face with his hands as the flow starts up and he hears Peter start swallowing. There's not a lot of piss needing to come out, but being excruciatingly aware of Peter's mouth around his cock makes it feel like it takes a long time. Peter's hands are clamped tight around his thighs in a way which makes Stiles pretty certain that he looked down right now he'd see a bulge in Peter's dress pants. And Peter keeps making these _noises_ , harsh breaths through his nose and quiet cut-off sounds like he's so turned-on by drinking Stiles' piss he can't help himself and god, what has Stiles got himself into?

When the flow finally stops, Peter licks his cock a few times, coaxing out the last drops, before pulling off at last and redressing Stiles in a way which he could only describe as 'tender'. He decides not to describe it, because frankly that's even creepier than the piss thing. Peter stands up and gently pulls Stiles' hands away from his face, strong hands around his wrists. Stiles can't look him in the eye.

Then Peter leans forward and for one awful moment, Stiles thinks he's going to kiss him - but he just sniffs the side of Stiles' neck, gently. Stiles can smell the sour scent of come and underneath it the sharp smell of piss, which he has a horrible suspicion he will now forever associate with sex. He can feel Peter's body heat.

Peter drops his arms, steps away, and just turns and walks out, calm as you please, as if they'd just been having coffee and a chat, even though Stiles sees the outline of his erection before he turns away. For one lunatic moment, he contemplates calling out and offering to help with that, as some bizarre way of getting even, but his throat feels clogged, so he just lets Peter go, staying propped up against the wall until the sound of a car engine has entirely faded. Then he lets himself sink down to the floor of the living room, take several hoarse breaths, and scrub at his face like that'll help him make sense of what just happened.

He is _so fucked_.


End file.
